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    Aug   30
    2014

    Gorge Amphitheatre

    George, Washington, US

    MAP

    Tickets are available through the Citi Presale, February 17 @ 10AM – February 20 @ 10PM PST. Visit citiprivatepass.com.

    The public on sale begins February 21, 10AM PST. Click here for tickets.

    3-Day Lawn tickets $120.00.
    Kids under 10 free on Friday and Sunday.

    This event will be styled like the DMB Caravan of 2011 with multiple stages and acts. We are pleased to announce that Brandi Carlile will perform. More acts to be announced soon.

    Dave Matthews Band will play 2 full sets.

    Opening Acts

    Fan Photos (0)

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    Comments (13)

    1. ms.greene says:

      Hi, I cannot buy 3 day lawn tickets on Citi Pre-sale – anyone else having this problem? Or anyone having luck buying them?

    2. Rick Hubbert says:

      I’m trying to buy 3 day general admission and can’t find on the site where it is offered. Any suggestions?

    3. bergrh says:

      Does anyone have a link that works to purchase the 3-day pass or was that deal only for Citi card holders?

    4. Rick Manka says:

      When will other bands finally be announced?

    5. I need to sell my 3 day pass. Anyone want it? I paid 120 plus fees. I came to 148.

    6. timcruger says:

      I’m interested. What is your bottom line? I don’t want to mistreat you but I’m also on a very rigid, Dave Ramsey budget.

    7. Crazy says:

      Almost Gorge Time!
      I have 1 pit ticket for sale!
      $275.00
      It’s gonna a be great!

    8. Tim I realized that i actually paid 142.10 which is 18 dollars cheaper than you could buy them now. Dave Ramsey would consider that a savings. :) would 140.00 work? That is 20.00 bucks towards financial freedom. :) you can email me at jeniflint284@gmail.com if you are interested.

    9. Karonv says:

      I have three tickets and just found out I cant go for Sat if anyone is looking for three tickets on Sat. shoot me an email karonvisible hotmail

    10. I’ve been trying to buy the 3 day lawn package for the last 3 days on ticket master/live nation and it keeps giving me errors when I try to check out. Is anyone else having this problem or know how to fix it?

    11. markasherman says:

      The following is a true account as to how I arrived at the Gorge for this show. The title of the following essays is “Directions to the Fucking Gorge.” Enjoy.

      To get to the Gorge Amphitheater in Washington state, first you need to realize, that is know, that is believe, that is understand, that is comprehend: that under any and all circumstances, out of the blue you might die. With that in mind, pour a glass of wine, two, three, four with a friend, put on some Dave Matthews, as that is what you, your wife (and your friend with whom you are planning to go to the fucking Gorge), love to listen to in all moments when music playing. Then when the wine hits that point in your system, and you and your friend realize that at any moment, today might be the day, the day that one of you might die, you put on some Dave Matthews. You pull out your laptop, you see Dave Matthews is playing at the fucking Gorge. You don’t talk about it. You pull out your credit card and buy tickets. You tell your friend that the tickets have been purchased and all you need do now is go. She looks and says, “Are you fucking kidding me?” You show her the receipt in your email. She says, “We are going to the fucking Gorge! Kathy would love this!” And so you pour another glass of wine for each of you and raise your glasses and toast the missing presence. You drink your wine. You think about the empty seat at the table. You look out at the yard that you and your wife built. You drink. You want to sip, but it’s not enough. You quaff. You’re going to the fucking Gorge to see Dave Matthews.
      The night moves on, you pour another glass of wine. Then begin to plan your trip. This is the first step in getting to the fucking Gorge for a Dave Matthews Band concert.
      You have come to realize that there are no warning signs. That at any moment, at any second all of this could (and will) end. So, you buy tickets to fly out to Seattle. You pay $400 for an apartment in Seattle for the weekend. You make plans. You decide what songs you want to hear at the end of August. You get more wine. This can neither be done nor planned in any sober manner. So you tap a box (yes, a box) of wine and plan. You laugh. You listen. You tell and share stories of that presence missing. You talk about the times you have seen Dave Matthews in concert. She saw him at Red Rocks (bitch!) you and your wife saw him last year at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park. You think how fortunate your wife was to see Dave in concert before she died. You wonder: If you knew she would die less than a year after you saw him in concert, would you have gone to other shows? (It dawns on you, that is almost a year to the day that you are at the fucking Gorge enjoying another Dave Matthews Band show. But, you keep this to yourself. There are some things you want to keep inside).
      A month passes. Two months pass by. You listen to Dave. You mourn. You celebrate. You wait. You talk. You move. You quit smoking. You do what you can to get control of your life (or what you have of it). And in the background is knowing that you’re going to go to the fucking Gorge to see the Dave Matthews Band in concert. You’re excited, so you decide to leave a couple of days early to visit Seattle. You still wonder if you should have moved there when you moved to Denver 20 years ago from New Mexico when you were 25 (the same age as the friend with whom you’re going to see the Dave Matthews Band at the fucking Gorge). Of course, if you had moved to Seattle 20 years ago, then this most important lesson, a lesson that you learned when you were ten, when your best friend died from cancer, but had to relearn at 44 (four days after March 29th it would have been 45) years of age, it would never have been learned. So, you thank something (you’re not terribly fond of God or any concept of such a thing at this point) that you moved to Denver, met your wife only to say good bye far too early. So, you buy Dave Matthews tickets. You decide that it is prudent to go to the fucking Gorge to see the Dave Matthews Band. She would have wanted to. But she would not have. So you do it with your friend. You decide that you need to live your life. Your friend, whom becomes your trophy wife for the car rental and later becomes your daughter to get through security lines with ease at the airport, becomes a much needed respite from all that is happening.
      She (not your friend, but your wife) died in March (the 29th for those seriously wondering). You begin to say to hell with it all in April. It dawns on you that your birthdays are only a day apart. And while you have known this since the night you met at the bar in Denver in November 1996, the fact the she died only four days before her birthday and thus five days ahead of your birthday does not hit you until a few weeks later when you pay for those tickets for you and your friend, whose birthday is only three days after your own and thus, four days after your wife’s birthday. You decide that, as you have always believed and known, but never truly absorbed until late March of 2014, that it can all end without a notice, that you should go to the fucking Gorge and see a Dave Matthews show. To hell with work schedules. To hell with what others might think. This is your life, this is your moment. So, you buy the tickets. You write the check for the apartment. You listen. You plan. And you turn the volume up on the stereo every time you hear a Dave Matthews song.
      And so you prepare. You make the ideal set list of almost 50 Dave Matthews’ songs with your friend. Then you get together with your friend (your friend in whom you have been able to count on in ways you never imagined. You both laugh the first time you call her for help; and when you meet up at that bar, you laugh, as you ask her if she ever, ever imagined helping you through some serious shit. You laugh and enter the bar for a “good, good, drunk.”), drink some wine and listen to all 50 songs and narrow it down to the 25 songs you really want to hear that night at the fucking Gorge. Three months after buying the tickets, you are both finally able to compress the list you have been putting together for that one night, those few hours at the fucking Gorge for a Dave Matthews concert.
      She would have loved it. You know this. So as you plan your trip, every thought is with her in mind. Every step. Every bite. Every drink of locally brewed beer. Every moment is with her in your mind. You ask yourself, WWWS (What Would Wife Say (you think about the time you were falling off of a ladder, and, instead of calling her name, you called her by your name for her: Wife.) Your friend, this person with you in Seattle, has forgotten her “name” as she, too, has only referred to your wife as, well, “Wife”)? WWWD (Do)? And over beers in an Irish pub in Capitol Hill in Seattle with your friend, a gentle breeze caressing your faces, now five months since all three of you (well, two) celebrated your birthdays, you both realize that the third, whom is no longer with you, well, she would have loved the fuck out of that view from that window overlooking the city, the Sound, the water, the clouds rolling over the city. And you talk about waking up the next morning to get to the fucking Gorge to see the Dave Matthews Band. And you raise your glasses in her honor (you have lost count as to how many times you have raised a glass in her honor this day). And you both smile knowing that she would have approved of this moment. These beers. The walk. The gum on the wall. The pizza. The sculpture, that from the right angle looked like a giant penis.
      And so you wake the next morning from a “deep, deep sleep.” You go get some coffee while your friend still sleeps. You’re excited as today is the day you go the fucking Gorge. All you can think about is WWWD! She would smoke, but you’re now three weeks to the day without one. So you wander about for a few minutes and wish you could smoke for her. So you tell James Spader to go fuck himself (there is a beautiful story there you want to share with a willing ear, but you’re alone at this moment.) And you end up at Starbucks, though you have tried two other coffee shops, it is the only place open at this hour. You call a friend and she tells you that this is what she hates about coffee shops, they open too late and close too early. You enjoy and find comfort in the voice on the other line at the moment. You miss that voice, that comfort which it brings. This voice has kept you grounded in ways you hadn’t realized you needed so badly. So you call her. You call to hear her voice. You talk about this and that. You tell her that this Starbucks has a wine bar. You tell her you love her and you miss her (you make sure that you tell everyone that you love and miss them now). Then you tell her you need to head back and get your things together, as today you go to the fucking Gorge to see Dave Matthews. And you tell James Spader to go fuck himself.
      (All right, it is time to share the story of the the shirts and why James Spader really needs to go fuck himself. You will be asked several times later that day, so you may as well prepare for it. So you practice telling the story so you don’t cry when you tell others about your shirts, as both of you will be wearing the same shirt. Two weeks before she died on March 29 (four days before her 50th birthday), her niece and nephew were in town from Kansas for their annual Avalanche game. Her nephew asked her if she had ever watched The Black List. She said no. And so he proceeded to talk it up. She got excited. She was jazzed as all get up to watch this show starring James Spader. She told him that as soon as she (and you) returned from San Diego, she would watch this show which stars James Spader. Two days after getting back from San Diego she is dead. She never saw it. You don’t have the nerves to watch it. But you know James Spader needs to go fuck himself. Anyway, he (the nephew) hears that night that his aunt, his son’s godmother, has died. He gets angry. He gets sad. He does what anyone should do. Then he decides that he needs to shut his brain off. He turns on Netflix. And what comes on? The show which stars James Spader. He throws his remote at his TV. He screams out, screams loud enough for many to hear, “Fuck you, James Spader!” And it becomes a catch phrase for all those who know and love his aunt, his son’s godmother, your wife. When she enters your mind, you tell James Spader that he is welcome to go fuck himself.)
      So, you have shirts made up for many: friends and family. On the back is the logo for The Black List on a TV screen with a remote hanging from the screen. Underneath, in bold, red letters, is the sentence: “Fuck You, James Spader.” Monogrammed on the front in red, bold lettering: FYJS. You and your friend, whom has been with you every step of the way to the fucking Gorge, you wear your shirts to the fucking Gorge in her honor. And you tell the story. You tell it three times. One woman cries and says that it is the most beautiful story she has heard. She hugs you. She hugs your friend with whom you’re at the fucking Gorge. Part of keeping her alive is telling her story. You realize that when Ender Wiggin became the speaker for the dead, you, too, are the speaker for the dead. Still, you want to cry (even after telling the story of the shirts three times that night; but this is how you keep her alive. This is how people whom never knew her get to know her.). Not from telling the story this time, but because she would have loved the fucking Gorge.
      So, to get to the fucking Gorge, all you need do is realize, know, understand, believe, comprehend: you will die. You don’t know when and you don’t know how, and there may not be any warning signs. But you will. So, you buy the tickets. Get the apartment. Arrange the rental car. Then you hit the road. And that is how you get to the fucking Gorge. And when you get there and see the view, the light playing and dancing on the sides of the canyon edges, you see the Columbia River lazily making its way by in the background, when you feel the breeze as storm clouds pass over and rearrange your hair, and you look about and see the other 27,498 people surrounding you and your friend, and even though so many of the songs you had hoped to see Dave Matthews perform were not played (you do jump for joy at the songs both of you really wanted were performed) you don’t care, because you will say, “My God, I am at the fucking Gorge.”

    12. graciewilks says:

      directions to the fucking gorge man… whoa..

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